


Buried Dreams

by Ywain Penbrydd (penbrydd)



Series: A Comedy of Assholes [44]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Ancient Age (Dragon Age), Archaeology, Inghirsh civilisation, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25197286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penbrydd/pseuds/Ywain%20Penbrydd
Summary: In the Ancient Age, around -1600, the Neromenians found a new god, and with this god came the power to sink entire cities into the earth. The Inghirsh had held them off this long, sending back 'ten thousand spearmen' on their shields. But, their new god promised them victory at last.Eight or ten years after Inquisition (somewhere in the vicinity of 9:50 Dragon), Kinnon finally goes back to investigate the ancient city beneath the Silent Plains. The spirits trapped beneath the earth are fearful and angry, but they're slowly fading away, memories lost to the passage of time, however intact the city might be. It takes the aid of two magisters to get permission to dig, and the ground still bears the Taint across the Plains, where Dumat fell, but Kinnon is intent on uncovering the past.
Relationships: Kinnon (Dragon Age)/Original Character(s)
Series: A Comedy of Assholes [44]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/232293
Comments: 41
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Inghirsh were a human tribe who occupied the land from northern Orlais to the Silent Plains, placing them to the north of the Ciriane, to the west of the Planasene, south of the Neromenians (all four major tribes are to the north of the Inghirsh), and to the east of the Yothandi and presumably the Orth (though the Orth aren't mentioned until the First Blight, so they don't appear in flashbacks). There's no mention of the Alamarri, in the flashbacks, because they don't come out of the West for another ~350 years or so. By the time of the fall of Arlathan, the Inghirsh had been reduced back to small, nomadic tribes, and their final attempt to push back the Neromenians resulted in them being even more severely reduced, the survivors fleeing to the Planasene and the Ciriane.

The Neromenians were no threat. Their warriors were weak and their numbers pitiful. Even their magics were no match for the strength of the Inghirsh, who sang with the spirits of the land and the sky. The rich land offered its fruits to the city of Aireneh, and trade strengthened the city with every season. All roads led to Aireneh, and all roads led away again. It was only in Aireneh that the Yothandi could buy the whitecurrant wine of the far southern lands, or the Ciriane could trade hard-won phoenix feathers for the finest fruit seeds from the lush Lattenfluss valley, as the hill-people called it.  
  
But, as much as they rattled their shields and stomped their feet, the Neromenians would never take Aireneh. Every army the Neromenians gathered, the Airenean guard put down with little effort. Few Inghirsh had fallen to the raids against the great city on the plains, and fewer fell each time, as the Singers brought the Neromenian dead to hold off their own.  
  
Some smaller settlements had fallen, but there was room enough in Aireneh for all those displaced. There was room enough in Aireneh to house whole tribes and leave room for an emperor's company -- though they'd only heard rumours of the Emperor of Par Ladi, in the far north. It was said his people used gold and jewels as the people of the plains used mud and stone, and that the emperor, himself, travelled with eight thousand men, their horses, and fifty laden gurns. Oh, yes, Aireneh could house them all, for it was a great city.  
  
Aireneh was a city made for commerce, since the high market first sprung up around the crossroads. The low markets were each a little further up one of those roads, inside one of the six gates of the city. The outer ring circled around the outside of the low markets, providing a clear path between them and between the gates. It was simple to come to Aireneh by one gate and leave by another. The inner ring circled the high market, where the merchants of Aireneh sold goods made in the city and the surrounding settlements. Not just Inghirsh goods, but goods from Aireneh itself. From the inner ring, one could easily reach the low markets from the high market. Outside the outer ring came the homes and the inns and the endless assortment of pubs and gaming houses. Even the Miterolon and the Skiarchis lived along the wall, travelling to the high market to handle the city's business before the whole city.  
  
The traders said the Neromenians were gathering on the Old Road, again, the one that led up to the Snake Tongue River, where the fish weren't as nice as they were in the Pnemoix. That's why it was the Old Road. That and the part where the Neromenians decided everything they could see belonged to them. But, the jugglers were still on the streets of Aireneh, and the taverns were full, and trade went on in the seven markets like nothing in the world was wrong. Which it wasn't. Aireneh would live a thousand years and more, if the Inghirsh had to push back the Neromenian border every year of it.  
  
Korallia stood on the wall, watching the city below. She was supposed to be watching the plains, but the guards at the gate below would call if there was trouble, and Yrida and Aris were still watching the plains. They were more interested to see who could identify an incoming merchant caravan first, than in the dancing gurns on the city's inner ring. It was the day of festivals, and while most of the performances between the high market and the six low markets were things she'd seen a hundred times before, the dancing gurns were new. She wondered how beasts so large could move so easily, and how long it would take one of them to fall into one of the bazaar stalls, the backs of which lined the road.  
  
"Dust on the Old Road," Aris called, pointing into the distance. "Neromenians or traders from Qarinus?"  
  
"I hope it's Minrathous," Korallia called back. "They've always got moon honey."  
  
"Oh, yeah, that Lamenthis guy with the whole gurn load of nothing but moon honey." Yrida draped herself backward over the edge of the parapet and made desperate gurgling noises. "I hope it's him. I'm going to guess Minrathous, just because I really want moon honey, and maybe the spirits will make it happen."  
  
"You're missing the gurns, Aris," Korallia pointed out as the last group of them moved into the space between the fourth spire and the Singers' Academy. "They're great!"  
  
"Call me when they come back around." Aris flicked his hand at Korallia, still staring at the cloud in the distance. What was that?  
  
One of the guards came up from inside the wall, bearing ale and pastry. "Allick from the metalworks just sent over a keg and some leftovers from the morning. They're about to lay the next table, and he remembered we couldn't come out."  
  
"Kiss him for me," Aris declared, relieving the guard of his tray and a mug of ale, and kissing him on both cheeks.  
  
"Oh, come on, nobody kisses Allick." The guard laughed as Yrida and Korallia took the other two mugs off him. "He won't stand for it."  
  
"You're not busy, yet, are you?" Korallia asked.  
  
"I've got another finger or two, before I switch with Elaphia. Just trying to stay inside a little longer. It's hot, today!"  
  
"It's hot, but if you stay up here, you can still catch the jugglers and the acrobats. You just missed the gurns. Come on, Niki, it's a festival day. The worst thing coming is a caravan full of moon honey."  
  
"We hope it's moon honey," Yrida admitted. "It might be dried fish."  
  
"It's a dragon!" Aris shouted, suddenly, as the shadow spread across the ground to the side of the cloud of dust. "Dragon sighting! Sound the bells! Clear the streets!"  
  
"Close the gates!" Korallia called, yanking open the door behind Niki. "Close the gates and get the Singers! It's a dragon!"  
  
Niki ran back down the stairs, calling instructions to everyone he passed. A dragon was not to be taken lightly. They could survive a dragon attack -- they'd done it for centuries -- but they had to be ready when it arrived, and that meant getting people out of the streets and the Singers onto the wall. It was an emergency, but it was something they'd grown up handling, and they'd handle it again. If the dragon wouldn't see reason, they'd have steaks to feed the whole city.  
  
The sun had moved less than a finger before the Singers came rushing up from the bottom of the walls. The Skiarchis, herself, came to the Old Road Gate, trailing master singers and novices behind her. A dragon, maybe twenty caravan-hours out. It would be on them in less time than it had taken to send the Planasene gate team across the city. The chanters led, and the singers followed, and the dome of light spread across the open top of the city, over the walls, held in place by the power of twelve dozen singers. No, the dragon would be no threat.  
  
But, as it swept over them, there was something unusual about the dragon. Its eyes studied them, and it slowed, not fighting the magic, but examining it. And this dragon was far larger than any the Skiarchis had seen in her seventy-four years. There were legends of giant dragons that had once led armies of sharp-eared warriors into battle, but no one had seen them in many centuries. The only traces were painted on the stone cliffs over the Snake Tongue River and in the legends of the Ciriane, who spoke of a spirit-dragon's cult, Those Who Weep, deep in the impenetrable forests of the far south. But, this dragon with its massive size and intelligent eyes reminded her of those ancient stories, and she wondered what was coming down the road, behind it.  
  
The Neromenians were said to be gathering on the northern plains, up the Old Road, but where would they have gained the loyalty of such a proud and ancient beast? No, she wondered if it was the warriors from the great northern wood, the ... Hilbehn? The Snake Tongue paintings said the sharp-eared warriors lived in that wood, with their great guardian dragons.  
  
Still, _this_ dragon would be no trouble, she was sure. It was just a scout. The real trouble would be whoever was behind it. Although if it was just the Neromenians, she expected no real trouble from them, either. Maybe she should call another couple dozen singers to raise the dead, but they'd be no trouble at all. They never were.


	2. Present Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The arrival of half the Magisters funding this expedition.

Kinnon stood at what felt like the edge of the world, somehow, despite the fact he'd seen the edge of the world and it looked nothing like this. But, the barren blightlands stretched in front of him, once again. He was sure he'd found an Inghirsh stronghold, near here, all those years ago, before the sky had opened up, before Peryn had known who he really was, _what_ he really was. But, Peryn stood beside him now, ready to catch him if he reached too deep into the ground.  
  
He'd lost that for a while, after the avalanche at Haven, that sense of the solidity of the earth, that instinctive sense of whether he was standing over a cellar, but years of work had brought it back, and now he was far better with it than he had been. It wasn't just about controlling the earth, it was knowing the stone, and Daylen had helped him learn it. Of course, Daylen was better at the fiddly little shit than Kinnon had the patience for. His sympathies and talents lay more with Lord Hawke, in some ways, but between the lot of them, they'd figured out how to find buried ruins, how to tell which pieces of the stone went where, and the Marchers who worked with Lord Hawke had been great at that, after all the restorations, but they'd become better, as the ideas Kinnon and Daylen had been kicking around sunk in. They had new ways to use those skills and that knowledge almost immediately.  
  
And after some restoration work on a few ancient thaigs, Kinnon had returned to the Silent Plains, to the place where Dumat had fallen, and far beneath those bones lay the ruins of an ancient city.  
  
"Here!" he called, and Master Brosca ran over with a flag, driving it into the ground at his feet as he softened the earth around it. "I think it's a gate. There's a... It feels like a bridge between two towers. I can almost see the shape of the stone, but it's deep enough it's almost a thaig."  
  
"You sure you didn't hit something dwarven?" Natia asked, squinting up at the lightly sunburned mage.  
  
"Yeah." Kinnon nodded slowly. "Dwarves don't build very much. They carve what's already there. This has blocks of stone, and they're touched with magic. Not runes, but... Like the Undercroft. Either they were made with magic or something really big and magical happened to them, later."  
  
"Like Tevinter, you mean," an androgynous voice called from the top of a camel that had just arrived from the north, the layers of veils shielding the rider from inspection, as the Marchers tried to help them dismount.  
  
"Neromenians, I think," Kinnon said, watching the figure unfasten the outer layer of travelling garments to reveal a pretty face and a very expensive Tevinter governor's robe, the preferred travel wear of the Altus.  
  
"Dorian will be along in a few days, dear, but he sent me on ahead. Someone's dragging House Pavus through the gutters again, so he's just going to put that fire out before it starts. He'll be along in a few days. Sends his love to you and your Templar." The gloves came off a pair of large but delicate hands, and their visitor smiled brightly. "Now show me what you've got."  
  
Kinnon blinked a few times, mouth opening and closing, before he registered who was standing before him. " _Magister Tilani_? I thought you were staying home!"  
  
"Oh, I was going to, but with Alexius back, I don't really need to be there. There are no pressing matters before the Magisterium, and it seemed like a good time to get out and have a look around." Maevaris gestured broadly, as if to take in the whole of the Silent Plains. "Besides, what happens here will define the future of First Blight ruins throughout Tevinter. If I'm going to argue for recovery and restoration, I should at least come out and see how it's done. We might be able to use some of those techniques in Minrathous, where I don't think anyone has actually repaired a building since Urthemiel was around to have an opinion about the construction."  
  
"And it's still standing? _Tevinter_ construction? I'm surprised it hasn't all fallen on your heads yet." Natia rolled her eyes and shook her head. "Dwarven construction will hold for ten thousand years, easy. Tevinter, not so much. A few centuries and the blocks start shifting when the dirt settles."  
  
"It's all held up with magic," Maevaris explained, taking in the little village that sat a short distance across the road. Stone, all of it, and new stone from the look of it. A whole village raised by magic, probably nearly overnight, given how far the excavation hadn't gotten. "Not repaired with magic, but just propped up so it doesn't crush the Magisters who don't know enough about stonework to fix it. Part of the role of the Magisterium of Minrathous is to hold up the city buildings. We're a little more civilised in Qarinus, but the decay is everywhere. For all that the man was obviously crazed and evil, I can understand Corypheus's disappointment in what the Imperium has become. Magisters just don't _work_ any more. These are the most powerful lines, the most powerful mages, and most of them do nothing but spy on each other and try to destroy other houses. A thousand years ago, the Magisterium supported the Imperium. No Magister imagined themselves above maintaining their cities, because that was a show of power, a demonstration of their excellence. So, I'm here to learn about what you do, so I can propose the Magisterium _do it_ , not just to the dead cities you study, but to living ones."  
  
"Ancestors, that's sounds as bad as Orzammar." Natia shook her head and readied another flag. "Good on you, trying to fix it. But, for juuuust this minute, I think you want to step back a little. He's finding the outer walls."  
  
"Turret!" Kinnon announced, jabbing a finger away from the village and pacing out into the desert. "Here!"  
  
Natia ran up and jammed another flag into the ground.  
  
"If we don't get the flags in, we'll be out here forever," Kinnon called back to Maevaris. "Have some beer with Gilroy; he can fill you in! I'll be back when I can't see any more!"  
  
"You sound like Dorian, and it's not good for him, either!" Maevaris put a hand on Peryn's shoulder. "Don't let him do that."  
  
"We try to stop him. We can only make him eat." Peryn shook his head. "I wonder if it was like this for the Disciples, chasing after Andraste with sandwiches."  
  
Maevaris laughed, not having expected that kind of humour from a Southern Templar, and she turned an appreciative eye on the blond man in iridescent robes who approached from where he'd led the camel.  
  
"You say that like you're not like that," Gilroy said, eyeing Maevaris a little sideways. "The only magister I've ever met was Dorian, so you're going to have to convince me you're not all like that."  
  
"Oh, no, dear. Dorian's a researcher first and a Magister second. I was born for the Magisterium. His memory is for magical minutiae, but mine is unequalled in matters of scandal and influence. I'm negotiation; he's implementation. We work quite well together, but I'm much better at stopping for tea." Maevaris smiled expectantly.  
  
Gilroy tossed a leather-wrapped package to Peryn. "Make him eat. It's been a whole candle, since lunch."  
  
Peryn pulled up his veil, as the wind picked up, and stared into the distance, where Kinnon was shouting and Natia drove in another flag, every time he did. "He will be done, soon. It will be too hot to go on."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> History, architecture, and mild flirtation -- the foundation of any good tale.

Gilroy offered his elbow to Maevaris, who happily put a hand on his arm and let herself be led into the village. "The buildings and the windbreak are all made of the sand. Anything will be stone, if you insist hard enough. We dropped a well, before anything else, but it's a hundred yards before it hits water. The draw time is unbelievable, but we've got some dwarven schematics for a pressure well that I want to try. Basically you shoot air into one hole and water's supposed to come up the other one. We're mages. We should be able to make that work. Natia swears it doesn't need magic, but I don't understand how it would work, otherwise. Either way, if it doesn't, most of us can at least manage ice, and that doesn't last long out here. Peryn taught us to make Ander-style windcatchers that blow air through the buildings, but not the sand, and we've been putting ice blocks in them, so they'll blow _cold_ air. It's just a temporary camp, but it's almost civilised. It's more civilised than the Circle was, before the revolution."  
  
"It's impressive." Maevaris looked around the village, with its curved windbreaks and the windcatcher towers that stuck up above them, whistling melodically when the wind blew. "How long did it take you?"  
  
"Oh, about two days, with all of us. Kinnon found the first gate and figured out which way the city was going, and we brought it all up on the safe side of the wall, out by a bit, so it won't all fall down the hole. Did you know there's an older road than the Imperial Highway? It's a couple hundred yards to the side of it. We know it goes into the city, and we think it comes out the other side, which means if the stories are true, the Imperial Highway is over here to miss the damage done to the path of the original road, when the city was destroyed." Gilroy opened the door to a comparatively large domed building, cool air rushing out to meet them. "The great hall. It's big enough we can all eat comfortably, without the heat gathering. The heat rises up into the dome and the windcatchers bring the cool air back down. We've got some nice Yothandi ciders. How's desert fig over ice sound?"  
  
"I'll take it. It's supposed to be hotter, up north, but by the sea it never gets this warm. It's like this place steals the spit out of your mouth." Maevaris patted at her lips, absently, brushing a mild healing spell into them. "Do you know I've never had any Ander food? They won't export to Tevinter, and Tevinter won't buy Ander exports anyway. And the Yothandi may not consider themselves Ander, but they live in the Anderfels, and that's enough."  
  
"It takes a little getting used to. You have to surrender your expectations of what food is supposed to taste like. Even the wine isn't really wine, but when you stop expecting it to be, it's good." Gilroy knocked a block of brittle ice, shattering it into the pot that held it, and scooped up shards of ice and some of the water into a pair of mugs, before he opened a bottle and poured half into each mug. "Desert fig cider, watered down so it's sweet instead of like drinking bottom shelf brandy."  
  
"I'm sure I've missed out on that particular displeasure. And you've spared me the trouble, once again." Maevaris sipped the sweet, cold drink and found that Gilroy was right. It was very good, if one had no expectations of what it should be. "Tell me about the city. What are the plans for uncovering it?"  
  
"Kinnon and Natia are out marking the outer walls, so we can get an idea of how many gates and how large the city actually is. Then, we're going to start shifting the sand back, one layer at a time, and pressing it into sort of a guard wall and a safe platform around the edge, which is where I'm staying because there's no way I'm climbing down another dark hole if I don't absolutely have to. The wall's another windbreak, so the sandstorms can't get to us while we're digging. We have to be extra careful with the sand, because the city's been buried for... If we're right, if this is a major Inghirsh stronghold, then according to the Chant, the Neromenians besieged the city around the time they first started talking to Dumat. And up to that point, the Inghirsh hadn't really been taking the Neromenians seriously, at all. Sent ten thousand spearmen home in pieces. The Neromenians just couldn't get their act together, until Dumat promised them victory in exchange for massive sacrifices and worship." Gilroy flicked a hand, dismissively and took a long, cool drink. "But, it's like you were saying about Minrathous. We don't know if the buildings are going to stand up by themselves, if we move the sand, so we have to uncover a little at a time and get Natia to look at it, before we go deeper. It's moronic to try to fix something from the top down, but we don't really have a choice, since there's no good way to come at it from the bottom."  
  
"And you can't let it fall, because you'll never get another chance." Maevaris nodded, understanding the importance of a delicate hand in any number of things. "Dorian tells me you believe the city was buried, like the supposed lost city of Barindur, or the legends of Arlathan. Are you really sure it's an Inghirsh city? The Inghirsh were said to be barbarians."  
  
"So are the Alamarri, but they still built Denerim." Gilroy shrugged. "Barbarians just means they weren't one of the tribes that became Tevinter. The Planasene, the Daefads, the Clayne, the Ciriane..."  
  
"You're a bit Ciriane, aren't you?" Maevaris asked, her body settling into an artfully attractive pose as she crossed her legs to the side of her chair.  
  
"Mostly Ciriane, probably. I guess I'm from Orlais, but I don't remember anything before Starkhaven. But, I could say the same to you."  
  
"No one's ever proven it!" Maevaris laughed. "Besides, it's probably Ander, anyway, not Ciriane."  
  
"Ander eyes are yellow. Most of Tevinter has brown eyes. Ciriane is where you find blue eyes and gold hair. Or that's what they say in the Anderfels, anyway." Gilroy shrugged again, and took a quick drink. "Besides, there aren't really Ciriane any more. There's only Orlesians, and they're half-Ciriane and half-Tevinter. I got lucky enough to look Ciriane."  
  
"And it does look good on you. Ciriane is good colours for your face," Maevaris told him, and when Gilroy blushed and ducked, with a nervous laugh, she reached out and caught his face with one long-nailed finger under the chin. "Chin up! Don't let that pretty face go to waste. Unless you're tired of beating suitors back with a stick, in which case it's time to invest in some Orlesian masks."  
  
"I'm lucky, but I'm not that lucky," Gilroy admitted, with an uncertain smile.  
  
"You could be," Maevaris assured him. "A pretty face, confidence, and a well-cut robe will get you far, in this world. A sharp mind will get you even further, but it's unlikely to be the first thing your suitors notice."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Politics and hidden meanings, the truth and the tale.

Kinnon came into the hall, a pasty in one hand, and his other arm around Peryn's waist. He wasn't quite stumbling, but it looked to be an act of will, as they approached where Maevaris and Gilroy sat. Peryn poured Kinnon onto a bench and rolled his eyes at Gilroy, before he went to get some ice water for Kinnon.  
  
"You're supposed to find a dead city, Kinnon, not become dead. I know, it's a subtle distinction--"  
  
Kinnon offered Gilroy a single finger, his other hand holding the pasty as he took another bite. "I found another gate. There's something piled on it, and I think it's bones. There's glitches like that all along the wall, but I just assumed they were the remains of decorative trees. It's all evenly spaced on the walls. But there's something different about the gate. The spacing's wrong. The density is... Do you remember when we found the mass grave on the Exalted Plains?"  
  
"You were sure something was buried there. I was pretty sure something was buried there. Turned out it was seventy-something elves, from the Exalted March?" Gilroy watched Kinnon rest his head in his hand and his elbow on the table, as Peryn came back with water.  
  
Kinnon nodded, cheek audibly scraping against his palm, before he smiled dizzily up at Peryn. "Yeah, that one. It reminds me of that, but over and just inside a city gate. There's a lot of stone, but there's something else down there, and I think it's people. I think it's a lot of people. It's ... if it wasn't where it is, I'd think it was Barindur."  
  
"It's not Neromenian stonework, so it's really not Barindur," Gilroy agreed, remembering the sketches Kinnon had made of what he thought some of the stonework might be. He'd learned to understand the sketches, after a while. Kinnon wasn't as good at it as Enchanter Daylen had been, but he'd started to figure out what those shapes meant, if you were looking at them dead on, instead of by type of stone, from above. "So, we're right. It's a buried Inghirsh city."  
  
"We don't know it's Inghirsh. Not really. But, I don't know what else it would be, right here. It's in the Chant, but the Chant was written a thousand years later, and there were so many versions before the official version was written down." Kinnon kept eating the pasty, moving like one of those wind-up dwarven dolls.  
  
"He is uncertain, when he is hungry," Peryn said to Maevaris, apologetically. "The Maker led him here, and the Chant tells us what we will find."  
  
"Sit, sit!" Maevaris waved for Peryn to take a seat with them. "I haven't met very many Templars, you know. Not like you have in the South. The Anders stay away from us, and Antiva and Nevarra have their own problems."  
  
"Well, I am an Ander Templar." Peryn smiled, bemused.  
  
"How does the Chantry -- _your_ Chantry -- feel about this city? I know how our Chantry feels. It's another thing to hold up when we're trying to be a new and different Tevinter -- 'look at the evils of our ancestors, but we're better than that now, because we have Andraste'." Maevaris looked so done with the Tevinter Chantry and its propaganda. "Sure we are, dear. That's why Minrathous is still eyeing Nevarra, and half the Magisterium is trying to uncover the ancient secrets of magical conquest we lost in the First Blight."  
  
Kinnon snorted. "You're using it against your ancestors. We're using it against your ancestors. Nobody likes the Neromenian, these days."  
  
Peryn shook his head. "I think the Chantry will use this to say the Chant is true. But, they have always said the Chant is true, in every respect. I do not know, any more, if I believe that." He held up a hand, as Gilroy sputtered. "I believe the Chant _was_ true. I think that the followers of Andraste sang what she taught them, everywhere she went, and they sang the local stories to her. Is not that what the Avvar still do? They have tellers of tales singing the local stories. And Maferath and Havard were Avvar. I think Andraste learned those stories and spread them with her song of the Maker. The Chant is a history of many people. But, we know things were left out, we know things were taken out. We know -- some of us know -- that Shartan, the elf, was a good friend to Andraste, and she gave him her mother's sword. But, that is not in the Chant any more, and Shartan's ears were painted over in Orlais. Before the Chant was everywhere, I think the Chantry did not use it well. It is harder to change, now that it is printed on pages and given out, but I think it needs to change. I think the story can be more true, if it doesn't leave parts out, and if this city makes the scholars come and ask questions, that is good."  
  
"You have strong opinions for an Ander." Maevaris looked surprised. "How do they take that in Hossberg?"  
  
"I am not in Hossberg, now. I have gone to Ferelden to study in the home of Andraste. Maybe there will be trouble, when I return, but I will say 'this is what I learned from Andraste's people.'" Peryn smiled slyly, eyes sparkling. "Because it is. My Kinnon is Alamarri."  
  
"I'm _Clayne_ ," Kinnon argued with his mouth full.  
  
"They are Ander." Peryn shrugged. "They do not understand." His smile turned a bit more embarrassed. "You still have Fereldan Bran, yes?"  
  
Kinnon laughed, covering his mouth so he wouldn't drop a mouthful of boiled jerky and flaky crust on the table, and nodded until he could swallow. "That was so bad." He looked up at Maevaris. "He got me a Fereldan figure from one of the sculptors at the Chantry market. It was just about every Fereldan stereotype in Northern Thedas mashed together. So, I mean, he's right. They wouldn't know the difference if you handed them a picture guide."  
  
"Oh, but come on, a picture guide to Fereldans..." Gilroy spread his hands and grinned. "How could you go wrong with that? Barbarians of the Southlands, now in living colour! We'd be rolling in royals! I bet Varric would pass it on to his publisher for us."  
  
"We're already rolling in royals, Gilroy. Magic-induced devaluation of gemstones in four markets, not that I feel bad about having done it in the _Anderfels_. If we can get traders who don't belong to the Carta to come through, I can promise you the standard of living's going to go up, if they keep charging Carta prices in Orlais." Kinnon took another bite of pasty. "Anyway, the Inghirsh. We don't know anything about the Inghirsh, except that they lived around here, and their lands came around the side of the Planasene and down to Ciriane lands. But, I have a feeling that's wrong. I think the Inghirsh were in a tighter area. This city is bigger than Denerim. I think they lived on the Plains, and after the city fell to the Neromenians, they moved south. But, I also don't think anyone from the city survived, unless they were out of town. If I'm right about that one layer, that's an enormous number of people, just on the walls. That's hundreds of people just on the city walls."  
  
"That can't be right." Gilroy shook his head. "If it is, that's got to be most of the population of the city. It's the Ancient Age. _Minrathous_ could barely have supported a defensive force that large."  
  
"They defeated ten thousand Neromenian spearmen, so Minrathous definitely had that many people. It's not a _village_."  
  
Peryn looked questioningly at Maevaris. "I thought 'ten thousand' was just to say there were very many. Do you know?"  
  
Maevaris smiled, clearly amused, and nodded. "Oh, the Neromenians had armies in the thousands, easily. A single Magister, once there was a Tevinter Imperium to speak of, could send an army of thousands without disrupting the defence of Minrathous, so there's not much doubt that even a couple hundred years earlier, the whole city of Minrathous could spare ten thousand men. It also doesn't say they defeated all ten thousand at once, and it says they killed a lot of them, but some of them lived to talk about it. So, it's possible that those ten thousand men could have been across a few attacks over the course of a century or two. It's possible some of those ten thousand men are being counted twice, if it's not just one event. And it's almost impossible to tell, _now_. So much was destroyed in the First Blight..." She shook her head sadly, but the smile came back quickly. "Dorian's trying to get permission to examine some restricted portions of the archives -- the materials are extremely fragile, so almost no one gets to touch them -- looking for information about the campaign against the Inghirsh, or even the campaign against the Planasene. And you _know_ Dorian. If it's there, he'll find it, if he doesn't pass out from not eating, first."  
  
"Tomorrow, I'm going to start digging at the north gate." Kinnon shrugged as he looked around the table, kneading his palm as he spoke. "Not tonight. My hands hurt."

Gilroy looked at Maevaris and cocked his thumb at Kinnon. "Speaking of passing out from not eating..."


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, the digging begins. What secrets will be found above the gate?

Kinnon stood with his arms folded across his chest and his eyes closed, the desert wind whipping at his robes and veils until he spread his arms and the sand in front of him rose up in a wave, creating a dune that spilled away from where he stood. The wind calmed behind it, and when he gestured again, Murray and Gilroy joined him, one to each side, and the sand rolled out of the way, lines of new stone holding it back as the mages sank down into the hole they were creating.  
  
"Don't forget the stairs, this time!" Natia shouted down after them, and Murray responded with one finger.  
  
Kinnon drew stairs out of the side of the square pit, stopping at the corner of the wall and then sinking them back in. "No stairs. Not yet. We'd bury them."  
  
As the morning slowly brightened, the pit grew deeper and deeper, obvious layers emerging in the sides, as Kinnon fixed them in place. He wasn't sure what they meant, yet, but he could see them. Like cutting through one of those Antivan cakes with the custard and berries. But, Natia would know. Natia knew everything there was to know about dirt, and how to tell who lived where when, by looking at it. She knew how to tell when the deserts swept through Orlais and who had shaped the stone before them.  
  
"Water!" Gilroy shouted. "I need another hand! Water!"  
  
And Kinnon hadn't counted on _that_. But, he turned and pushed the water back, as it leaned against the thin edge of the wall holding back the ground. And that was why he hadn't seen it. It wasn't where he was looking, but it was dependent on the pressure from the ground they'd moved, and now it was trying to fill the space. "Maker's breath... Murray, check the walls, and then give me somewhere to move this!"  
  
"We're okay," Natia assured Peryn, as she ran toward the side of the pit the water was under. "Here!" she yelled, from beyond the towering wall. "Give me a fountain here!"  
  
"I can't see you!" Murray yelled back. "You know that, right?"  
  
Up beyond the edge of the pit, Sheena ran out to help, not sure she could do much -- her skill was in Force. She was there to catch the walls if they fell. But, Maevaris followed, her travelling robes whipping in the wind.  
  
"What are we trying to do?" Maevaris asked, from behind the veils stuck to her face.  
  
"We have to get the water out. We have to give them somewhere to move it, so it doesn't flood the--"  
  
Maevaris nodded. "I'm not a Magister for nothing, like some people are."  
  
The smile was hidden by the veils, but her eyes still gleamed, as the steam started to rise out of the ground, blowing wet sand out around it. "Help me control the edges," she demanded of Sheena.  
  
Sheena scrambled to help. Force was usually a high-impact, low control speciality, but she'd never had the kind of power Lord Hawke wielded. What she had was control tight enough to stack and sort paper. Pulling the sand away from this strange, small, downward tunnel was fairly simple, and with a bit of Primal, she could shape some of it into a stone bowl, which made the rest easier to clear away.  
  
"You have a vent!" Maevaris called, and Natia ran toward the edge of the pit.  
  
"Push it back! It'll go up!" Natia yelled through the wall.  
  
Murray squinted up at the towering windbreak above the pit, absolutely sure Natia had said ... something. More than that, though, was lost to the whistling of the wind across the top of the pit. "What'd she say?"  
  
Kinnon caught enough words to make sense, and the stone twisted out of Gilroy's grip, thickening and filling in the punctured water pocket. They hadn't actually cut into it, but Gilroy was right. It was going to come right through the wall, if they didn't move it, and he sealed some of those cracks, as he pulled back from it. "I wonder if it's tainted."  
  
"If it wasn't, it is, now." Murray rolled his eyes. "It's why we have cisterns, instead of wells. The First Blight is all over the land, here, and you know that."  
  
"Great. We're going to have blight skinks," Gilroy sighed, examining the stone, once it stopped shifting. "We pushed that water to the surface, and the lizards will get into it."  
  
"You're assuming they weren't already blight skinks. Around here, I'm not taking that bet." Murray shook his head. "We have to be getting close. There are elven ruins this old still standing in Ferelden."  
  
"Elven ruins that weren't _swallowed by the earth_ ," Kinnon reminded him. "And if we get this, and I'm right, I want to go after _Arlathan_."  
  
"Because you've completely lost your mind from the desert heat. It's what all that living in the Anderfels has done to you," Murray scoffed, bracing himself to heave more earth, much less sand-like, now, out of the pit.  
  
Foot after foot, the floor dropped, the occasional gurn skeleton rising out of the earth. A whole lifeless merchant camp, centuries old, the goods long since rotted away. And this, Kinnon sealed in glass and let stand.  
  
"Cut around it. I want to see where ... _when_ it is," he said, gesturing to the layers in the wall. "After the Blight, I think. We're not there yet."  
  
"How the blight do you know where the Blight is?" Gilroy demanded, mopping the sweat from his face with the veils he'd taken off as they sank below the level of the wind.  
  
"The Hinterlands. There were places in the Hinterlands and up out toward the Bannorn that were tainted. The dirt gets weird, and it gets down into the ground. But, we're not where Dumat came down. They know where that was. It's over there somewhere. They still dig up wine from around the bones, or that's what they say."  
  
"If they're digging up _wine_ from around Dumat, why haven't we hit the Blight, here?" Murray looked around. "We've hit the Blight," he said, suddenly. "You just can't see it because we're _in the Blightlands_."  
  
"Then where's the-- Oh." Kinnon's shoulders sagged. "I just said it. It gets down into the ground. Maker, I just didn't think it went that far down..."  
  
"We're getting close," Gilroy reminded him. "We have to be. Those bones you thought you found are right under us. And they _are_ bone. This close, I can tell."  
  
"Fifteen feet?" Kinnon asked, taking an estimate based on how the bones felt now, versus when he'd found them.  
  
Gilroy just shrugged. "You're better at that than I am."  
  
"Clear to the top of the ramparts and break for lunch?" Murray suggested, and Kinnon nodded.  
  
"If we don't, Peryn's going to start throwing food down here."  
  
"Pull the stairs out when we hit stone," Gilroy advised. "If it's anything like a Fereldan build, there's a good eight feet before we hit bone, after that."  
  
The gate towers were the first thing they hit, the shingles long since cracked, and Murray stopped to check the towers themselves, as Kinnon shoved more of the earth away.  
  
As he and Gilroy forced the dense earth up over the back wall, fire shot up from the newly-uncovered patch between the towers, and a massive rage demon resolved from the flames.  
  
Murray scrambled back against the tower, just barely higher than his head. "Andraste's ashes!"  
  
"Andraste's ass aflame!" Gilroy shrieked as he turned to see what the problem was, throwing himself behind Kinnon.  
  
"Piss," Kinnon muttered, taking a lyrium potion out of his bag, and drinking it.  
  
"I don't think that's going to put it out," Gilroy squawked, as the demon turned toward them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late! This past week has been mayhem, and it doesn't look like it's going to let up any time soon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three exhausted mages attempt to deal with a rage demon.

Kinnon just stared, for a long moment, waiting to see if the demon would speak -- some of them did, he'd learned in his time with the Inquisition. And that was what they needed Fen'Din for. He spoke to spirits. Despite the name, the Spirit school of magic didn't have a lot to do with actual spirits, and Kinnon's innate talents were mostly useless, here. Except the shields. He could do shields...  
  
And he threw one up just in time as the demon surged forward, its flaming fists slamming against the barrier. Something that might've been words followed, but it was in a language Kinnon had never heard -- not just didn't speak, but had never heard. And he was pretty sure he'd heard most of the languages still spoken in Thedas, and several that weren't.  
  
Planasene had to be something like Old Nevarran, he thought. The Inghirsh might not have survived but the Planasene had, and ... Fen'Din spoke Nevarran. "Nevarran? Anybody speak Nevarran?"  
  
"Sprechen sie Navar?" Murray called across the pit. "I don't speak it well! That's about all my Nevarran!"  
  
"Ferret! That's Nevarran, right?" Kinnon grinned awkwardly up at the demon towering over him, outside the shield. It had twisted to look at Murray, though, and he brought up another shield. The distance was a problem. He wouldn't be able to hold both shields for long, like this.  
  
But, the demon just stared in confusion.  
  
"Sprechen sie Navar?" Murray tried again, shrugging. At least the demon wasn't moving toward him. He had its attention, though. He definitely had its attention. "Planasene?" he ventured, pointing at himself. "Ciriane? Alamarri?" he pointed to the other bubble of shield.  
  
"Kyrianes?" The thing turned back to Kinnon, looking past him to Gilroy. The Ciriane looks were unmistakeable, even more than a thousand years later.  
  
"Bonjou, ou pale lang sa a?" Gilroy tried, peering around Kinnon's shoulder, and Kinnon shot a horrified look back at him.  
  
"What? I don't speak Orlesian! I only know a little transitional Ciriane from the herbology books!"  
  
"Neromenes!" The demon roared, slamming its hand against the bubble again. "Yrthes apoh ta boureia gy na klepsos ti gy mas!"  
  
"Tevene loqueris?" Kinnon had picked some of it up listening to Anders and the old Darkspawn talk shit about the state of magic. Lord Hawke had translated some of the funnier parts for the rest of the room, and there were constant debates about which words still meant the same things. He could kind of string a few words together. "Non est Neromeni! Neromeni est malus!"  
  
"Neromenes!" The demon insisted, pounding at the outside of the shield, as the inside continued to heat from the flames pressed against it.  
  
Kinnon felt Murray's shield collapse as he tried to strengthen the one surrounding himself and Gilroy.  
  
Across the pit, Murray pulled stairs out of the side of the pit, and he sprinted to them, climbing as fast as he could, the steps springing out three at a time before him as he moved. Every part of him ached from the work they'd been doing all day, from the amount of magic involved in digging this deep, but he pushed onward. He had a plan. He had, at least, an idea.  
  
"Simil... Similus? Simile? Similwhatever Neromeni expectamum?" Kinnon shouted, trying to figure out how they were getting out of this one. The demons weren't usually a foot away and trying to kill him, and the last time... the _first_ time... "Do we look like Neromenians? Do we really? Pretty sure we don't!" He jabbed a finger at Gilroy, again. "Ciriane!"  
  
The demon grinned as it watched the sweat pour down Kinnon's face, and it wrapped itself around the outside of the shield. Kinnon couldn't see past it, could barely hear beyond the roaring of the flames.  
  
"Blight take you," Kinnon hissed, sweating and panting in the heat as he spread his hands.  
  
The ground rose up around the demon, trapping it against the surface of the shield. Not quite what he'd had in mind, but he could work with this. "Gilroy? Hit it. Force-fist it into the back wall, and I'll close it up."  
  
The stone splintered with the force of Gilroy's strike, shards spraying away from the shield, but most of it held, and Kinnon threw more power into the ground, closing the capsule around the demon. They could still hear it roar, even through that much stone, but Kinnon dropped the shield. "Okay! Talking is not helping! Running?"  
  
"Running," Gilroy agreed, making for the stairs.  
  
Kinnon followed, aware that the stone was softening, behind them. He could do this. He'd destroyed demons before, but usually in better condition than he was in after a day of moving stone. And the thing was old, angry, and huge. He'd never come across a rage demon this size, except that one time in the Fade. The power of the fury emanating from it was enough to give him serious concerns about the survivability of this experience.  
  
But, they had a Templar. Only one, but they had one. "Peryn! Peryn, we've got demons!"  
  
From the top of the wall, Murray had a different idea, waving down to where Natia and Maevaris still waited by the spring, playing in the water. "Give us back the water! It's a rage demon!"  
  
The stone around the demon glowed a rose-gold colour, droplets of crystal running down the surface, and Kinnon watched it nervously as he made his way back down the stairs to open a doorway for Peryn to join him on the stairs. It wasn't going to hold. Centuries of fury, freshly brought out of their rest would not be so easily contained, and for the first time he wondered if that demon was only the remains of one of the city's inhabitants, or if, as he'd seen happen years ago, the strongest and angriest of them had absorbed the rest, hoping for the chance to unleash that power on those to blame -- the Neromenians. Probably best, he thought, to keep Mae and Dorian away from the actual pit, until they were sure they'd gotten all the demons out.  
  
"You look like you're going to fall down," Murray told Kinnon. "Sit and let me borrow your Templar."  
  
"Will no one ask if I wish to be borrowed?" Peryn teased, stepping out onto the stairs and catching his first look at the melting stone that barely imprisoned a demon. "What would you have me do?"  
  
"Run out there and smite it." Murray grinned tensely and shrugged. "If you can keep it low-power for a little while, I can flush it with water."  
  
"The stone's going to explode," Kinnon warned him. "You can't just throw water in there, if it's this hot."  
  
"Even better." Murray cracked his knuckles and sprinted down the stairs, a ridge as round as his fist lancing out from where they'd hit the water, originally, and angling toward the demon. Spikes lanced up from the ground to support it, as he jumped off the last few steps and chased after it.  
  
Peryn ran after him, shouting. "Wait! Wait! I do not want to smite you!"  
  
"We don't have much time!" Murray gestured at the stone, which had finally begun to melt in spots, but he stopped running toward it.  
  
Peryn shot past him, counting steps, until he was sure he was both far enough from the mage behind him and close enough to the demon in front of him. Sweat broke out almost immediately on his face and hands, but the dry, hot air wicked it away as fast as it could bead.  
  
"You have no power here!" he cried out, and the stone seemed to shimmer, as the demon howled, all the more enraged. He looked back at Murray. "Fast, now! Fast!"  
  
The stone spindle that had followed Murray shot past him, joining with another layer of stone around the demon. "Water!" he called back to the mages on the stairs. "Give me back the water!"  
  
Kinnon realised almost immediately what Murray was trying to do. "Run, you blighted idiot!"  
  
"I can do this!" Murray insisted, kneeling to put his hands on the ground. The outer barrier around the demon thickened, and the sound of water raced by him, overhead.  
  
"I cannot smite with you so--"  
  
"Then _run_ ," Murray growled, salt crystallising in the ends of his hair.  
  
The stone cracked and the ground rumbled, but Murray stayed where he was, and the steaming cracks closed again, as fast as they could form. From inside the barrier, the howling and shrieking continued, mingled with the sounds of escaping steam, until it was no longer possible to tell which was which. But, the cracking slowed, and the rumbling ground subsided, and finally there was no sound at all.  
  
And Murray curled up on the ground, where he'd knelt, panting. "Somebody get me some water."


	7. Chapter 7

Murray lay in bed in the camp house he shared with Gilroy, slowly drinking water, cold soup, and lyrium potions. The rest of the team had crowded in with him, and finally, Kinnon ended up moving a wall to make enough space for all of them.  
  
"I'm fine," Murray insisted, as Peryn pressed a hand against his forehead yet again, and Natia handed him another bowl of soup. "Really, that was wild, but I'm good. I'll be back to excavating, in the morning. I'm just a little dizzy."  
  
"Yeah, you're just a little dizzy like Anders gets just a little dizzy." Kinnon laughed, leaning over to pour himself some more maguey nectar from the pitcher. "I don't know how much excavating we're doing, tomorrow. We've hit demons. Now we have to figure out what we're doing about demons, because I'm pretty sure that's not the last one down there, and I'm a little more worried about revenants, with the stories of how the Inghirsh fell. There's a lot of dead mages and angry spirits, here, and we don't speak the language."  
  
"Okay, but there's like... elven rituals for approaching the spirits, right?" Natia looked around the room, as one of the only two non-mages in it.  
  
Gilroy sat on the end of Murray's bed, eating a rolled sandwich in the Ander style. "Sure, but we don't actually know how to do them. Elvish is really contextual, and we don't have any elves here. Anything we remember from other projects is really open to interpretation. And the Circle doesn't teach much about dealing with spirits, beyond ' _don't_ '. Well, not in Kirkwall, anyway. Kinnon? Mae?"  
  
Maevaris sipped her wine and rested her feet on the edge of the stone ice chest. "Spirits aren't really my thing, dear. Dorian might be able to--"  
  
"Fen'Din strongly disagreed with Dorian's methods," Kinnon pointed out, "and so did Cole and Justice."  
  
"Didn't Justice and that Orlesian teach him a few things, though?"  
  
" _Valery!?_ Oh, you're right." Kinnon shook his head and took a long swallow of the sticky-sweet drink. "It's the sun. I forgot about that whole thing with Niall. But, Dorian's still not here."  
  
"The easiest thing to do would be to not dig up any more demons until Dorian gets here, but I know we're not going to get that lucky." Murray slurped soup from the bowl. "There has to be something we can do to not do that again."  
  
"I'm going to suggest not letting Gilroy speak Orlesian to them again," Kinnon quipped, glancing at Maevaris. "Ciriane, maybe, but Orlesian sounds too much like Tevene."  
  
"Of course it does." Maevaris reached over to pat his knee. "And so will Antivan. We don't know what the Inghirsh spoke, because the language is gone, but they probably also spoke Planasene, or their traders and diplomats would. How's our Nevarran, aside from words describing the Mortalitasi?"  
  
"None of us speak Nevarran. That's how we got into this mess." Gilroy shrugged. "It recognised Ciriane, though. I just don't speak good Ciriane. I don't speak Ciriane at all, really, I just read it. Kind of. Transitional Ciriane, like... between the First and Second Blight. It's not Ciriane, but it's not Orlesian."  
  
Peryn eyed Kinnon, amusement in his eyes. "You speak Horse Lord, yes?"  
  
Kinnon shook his head. "No such thing. I speak a little Dog Lord, though. The Alamarri language is really just one language, with some regional dialects, like Avvar. Avvar's not ... incomprehensible, but it's got a lot of words and ideas you don't find in the lowlands, and they have weird accents. If the Clayne lived in the mountains, we'd probably have those words too."  
  
"He has a point, though," Maevaris ventured. "Alamarri is an old language. Even if the next spirit doesn't speak it, they may recognise it. It sounds nothing like Tevene. Or Ander! Some of you speak Ander, don't you? When the Anderfels stopped being Northwest Tevinter, the first king instituted laws about the Ander language that excluded words that came from Tevene and proposed compounds of Ander words to fill in those gaps. We know the Inghirsh used to trade with Barindur and Minrathous, before there was an Imperium, so they may have traded with the Orth."  
  
Peryn looked contemplative. "The Yothandi, not the Orth. I do not speak Yothandi very much. The Orth came late. We have no history that is so old. But, we know the Yothandi fought with Tevinter before us, and the first Orth king made laws against Tevinter. And then Orlais came, and we should have had laws about Orlais." He laughed. "The Orth came with the dwarves, I think. We have always been with dwarves in our cities."  
  
"I'd ask if we tried Dwarven, but if it didn't know Common, that's not going to work." Natia nibbled on a desert fig. "And I don't really know the old Dwarven. Not enough of it. You run into a lot of it in the Deep Roads, and the old thaigs, but you have to be a Shaper to know how to say it. The writing hasn't changed a lot -- the runes are always the same -- but they don't mean exactly the same thing any more, and you say them different if you're from Kal Sharok, so... I mean, you can still read it pretty well. Warnings are still warnings, but a lot of the more subtle stuff is gone because we don't use those runes that way any more."  
  
"You want that I should try to speak Ander to the next demon?" Peryn shrugged. "It shows we are not Tevinter. Even if it does not understand, we are not making words it does not like."  
  
Kinnon nodded. "It might work better if we're expecting it, too. I'm sure running around in a screaming panic didn't really help our credibility any. You think we should try offering wine?"  
  
"We should not make offerings to demons." Peryn shot him a completely confused look.  
  
"No, but we should make offerings at the gates of a city we don't have an embassy in." Murray had picked up where that line of thought was going. "The city fell in a battle. All the spirits here are going to remember that battle as the last time they saw people. We're not the people they want to see, so we must be the enemy."  
  
Gilroy nodded and pointed at Murray. "And if we come to them with wine, suddenly we're traders, not warriors. I like it."  
  
"The question, then, is whether they remember enough to make that distinction, after thousands of years. Not every spirit can be reminded of what or who they used to be, especially after this long." Maevaris smiled at Gilroy. "It's not my speciality, but I've spent enough time with Dorian to know some things."  
  
Sheena looked around the room. "So, our best chance to avoid fighting our way through hundreds of demons is to... bribe them with wine and hope they remember how to be Inghirsh?"  
  
"That's what I'm hearing," Natia said with a shrug. "It would help if we had better wine."  
  
Gilroy shrugged. "We're mages. How hard can it be?"


End file.
